A year ago today, my son was born. My feelings on this matter are muddled- I am gobsmacked at how quickly it’s gone, proud of how well he’s doing, amazed that Benn and I have managed to look after such a small human and really rather exhausted as I’ve not had a full night’s sleep in god knows how long.
I won’t lie- the last year has been hard. Really hard. We’ve had to deal with D’s infection after birth, my health and dental issues, the colic, the exhaustion, my depression and the general learning curve that having a baby brings. It would be a lie if I said I’d enjoyed every second of new motherhood. But it would also be a lie if I said I don’t enjoy him now. He is such a monkey, grinning at me as he’s about to attempt to shimmy up the chimney (I tell Benn that we had D 150 years too late. He’d have made an excellent chimney sweep.)
It’s been amazing seeing his firsts and watching him develop new skills. Sometimes, I watch him and think, ‘that’s probably the face cavemen used to pull when discovering fire. Or the wheel.’ He is a surprisingly stubborn little boy who is determined to do whatever he sets out to do, regardless of whether his parents agree. I, for one, cannot WAIT until that mutates in teenage-hood.
He laughs at dogs, likes to ‘read’ and can say ‘baby’. Iggle Piggle makes him chuckle and his favourite song is The Grand Old Duke of York. My little boy is pretty cool.